Every time he believes he’s gained ground, every time he feels he’s attained something, every time he thinks he’s at his end, it’s always taken away from him. Finally when he had felt satisfied in their contract, J had refused to give him the peace he wanted; he tore away his mortal life and granted immortality instead. The love and care he had promised had fallen away into ash, replaced by confusion, pain, and humiliation. Every step he had made in Hell to overtake his master had been checked with often violent impunity. Even here, with each scrap of strength he’s able to graft onto himself, he only ever seems to find more faults, more weaknesses, more vulnerabilities, all so numerous he struggles to see himself ever covering for them all.
Again, the phantom angelic wings beat — as they’ve been doing all along, a double-image to the draconic wings sewn into his lower back — but this time they do more than leech away his vitality, arresting his downward motion so that he hangs in the air against his will. The feathers act with newfound agency to press forward and ensnare him to restrain his movement, the make-shift spear of twisted metal melting away into motes of light in his very hands. A fiercely-burning ember of anger burns at his core, dire, frustrated and humiliated at his own impotency, his own powerlessness, even with everything he’d done to try to assure otherwise. He might not be able to move, but he still tries as the pale arms, banded in their opalescent scales, slip around his wounded body; he can sense the creature behind him, can hear the soft words of its two-toned voice curl into the shell of his ear, scarcely centimeters away. That ember of anger flares up, fanned by hatred and disgust — he hates this facsimilie of intimacy that it forces upon him, he hates that fucking sanctimony that dribbles from its lips…! His jaw clenches, and his mouth twists into a feral snarl; two tiny white-hot pinpricks begin to burn in the corners of his eyes, but they’re tears of anger and helpless frustration. He knows it’s pointless and yet he struggles anyways, muscles straining in vain against the grasp of the myriad feathers until they fall entirely inert. Shimmer’s hold on his body ebbs and fades, the vivid indigo light pulsing visibly beneath his skin beginning to disappear altogether. Exhaustion hits him all at once, causing each of his limbs to fall limp and leaden, feeling so heavy they might tear free from him at any second.
I’ve always hated voices like yours. Words like yours. Those that told me no God would offer me salvation without burning out from me something I never even asked for in the first place.
He comes by his bitter indignation honestly; its roots sink deep into his essence, all the way back to when he was still human and remembered well the feelings of guilt and regret.
Makoto has nothing else to say to it; really, he is very nearly about to succumb to the pain of his wounds and the exhaustion of his body when the spear moves with the dreadful surety of a guillotine. Its blade plunges through Estinien’s Innocent-possessed body behind him, and then again through his own chest, causing a fresh, new bloom of spiritual agony. The last of the Kenoma retreats as far as it could, screaming, and as it does so does he, though really all he can manage at this point is a strangled cry that cuts itself off with an ignoble choke. The Kenoma having been entirely banished, whatever abilities imbuing his body fade along with it. The Shimmer, gone; the power of his enmity, faded; his wings hang from him, as heavy and lifeless as windless sails. Darkness begins to encroach on all sides as both his body and his mind reach their limit, truly and fully spent. But he does not go gentle into that good night; despite the feathers’ restraint and the spear impaling him and adjoining him to the creature, he manages a few half-hearted jolts of pointless struggle. And then, finally, he goes fully limp.
no subject
Every time he believes he’s gained ground, every time he feels he’s attained something, every time he thinks he’s at his end, it’s always taken away from him. Finally when he had felt satisfied in their contract, J had refused to give him the peace he wanted; he tore away his mortal life and granted immortality instead. The love and care he had promised had fallen away into ash, replaced by confusion, pain, and humiliation. Every step he had made in Hell to overtake his master had been checked with often violent impunity. Even here, with each scrap of strength he’s able to graft onto himself, he only ever seems to find more faults, more weaknesses, more vulnerabilities, all so numerous he struggles to see himself ever covering for them all.
Again, the phantom angelic wings beat — as they’ve been doing all along, a double-image to the draconic wings sewn into his lower back — but this time they do more than leech away his vitality, arresting his downward motion so that he hangs in the air against his will. The feathers act with newfound agency to press forward and ensnare him to restrain his movement, the make-shift spear of twisted metal melting away into motes of light in his very hands. A fiercely-burning ember of anger burns at his core, dire, frustrated and humiliated at his own impotency, his own powerlessness, even with everything he’d done to try to assure otherwise. He might not be able to move, but he still tries as the pale arms, banded in their opalescent scales, slip around his wounded body; he can sense the creature behind him, can hear the soft words of its two-toned voice curl into the shell of his ear, scarcely centimeters away. That ember of anger flares up, fanned by hatred and disgust — he hates this facsimilie of intimacy that it forces upon him, he hates that fucking sanctimony that dribbles from its lips…! His jaw clenches, and his mouth twists into a feral snarl; two tiny white-hot pinpricks begin to burn in the corners of his eyes, but they’re tears of anger and helpless frustration. He knows it’s pointless and yet he struggles anyways, muscles straining in vain against the grasp of the myriad feathers until they fall entirely inert. Shimmer’s hold on his body ebbs and fades, the vivid indigo light pulsing visibly beneath his skin beginning to disappear altogether. Exhaustion hits him all at once, causing each of his limbs to fall limp and leaden, feeling so heavy they might tear free from him at any second.
I’ve always hated voices like yours. Words like yours. Those that told me no God would offer me salvation without burning out from me something I never even asked for in the first place.
He comes by his bitter indignation honestly; its roots sink deep into his essence, all the way back to when he was still human and remembered well the feelings of guilt and regret.
Makoto has nothing else to say to it; really, he is very nearly about to succumb to the pain of his wounds and the exhaustion of his body when the spear moves with the dreadful surety of a guillotine. Its blade plunges through Estinien’s Innocent-possessed body behind him, and then again through his own chest, causing a fresh, new bloom of spiritual agony. The last of the Kenoma retreats as far as it could, screaming, and as it does so does he, though really all he can manage at this point is a strangled cry that cuts itself off with an ignoble choke. The Kenoma having been entirely banished, whatever abilities imbuing his body fade along with it. The Shimmer, gone; the power of his enmity, faded; his wings hang from him, as heavy and lifeless as windless sails. Darkness begins to encroach on all sides as both his body and his mind reach their limit, truly and fully spent. But he does not go gentle into that good night; despite the feathers’ restraint and the spear impaling him and adjoining him to the creature, he manages a few half-hearted jolts of pointless struggle. And then, finally, he goes fully limp.